WHEN THEY ARRIVED AT THE BUNGALOW, THE GOLD COAST colonial officials who greeted them were a seedy-looking group of middle-aged men dressed like Boy Scouts in their matching khaki shirts, khaki shorts, and tall khaki stockings. Most of the deputation had cropped little toothbrush mustaches and fat knees. They all wore polished Sam Brown belts but no sidearms.
Clearly the event was orchestrated for the sole purpose of divining why two Commando officers had landed unannounced and uninvited in their sleepy environs. The Gold Coast administrators did not learn much, though the subject of the cattle trade did manage to make its way into the conversation peripherally. Major John Randal and party explained they were there to take the sun, but they also professed a mild interest in going to the northern border, where the bulk of the illegal cattle trade occurred, to hunt elephant. Fortunately, the meeting did not go on for long. Since everyone was lying, the atmosphere was strained.
Back in the Chevrolet, Major Randal took out a small writing pad and scribbled a message. “Jim, can you arrange to have this message go out emergency priority?”
The communiqué read: URGENT STOP REQUEST COMMANDER RICHARD SEABORN BE ASSIGNED TO COORDINATE NAVAL ASSETS REQUIRED STOP TO ARRIVE ACCRA AS SOON AS POSSIBLE STOP EXPECT NO HELP FROM LOCAL MILITARY AND POLITICAL STOP INTERFERENCE FROM LOCALS LIKELY STOP TEMPORARY PROMOTION FOR COMMANDER SEABORN HELPFUL STOP SIGNED RANDAL, MAJOR STOP RAIDING FORCES STOP.
“It’ll be sent out tonight, Major.”
“Is it true, Baldie,” Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone inquired, “the Gold Coast is called the white man’s grave?”
“When an Army officer was being sent out here a while back,” the SOE man began matter-of-factly, “he asked a friend who knew the colony what equipment he should bring. You know what the answer was?”
“What?”
“‘A casket; that’s all you are going to need.’”
Jim “Baldie” Taylor put them up in a safe house eight miles outside of Accra. The cottage was a thatched-roof bungalow on the beach. As they arrived, the incandescent globe of the sun was glide-bombing itself into the southern sea-lane. When it slammed into water, the ocean turned the green color of a parrot’s breast. After that it got dark fast.
The whirling ceiling fans in every room of the hut swished through the warm, semiliquid air in a vain effort to create some resemblance of a cool breeze.
Moths the size of sparrows race-tracked crazily around the lights covered with green shades. A colorless, motionless gecko clung spread-eagled high up on one wall. “House lizard,” Baldie explained. “Eats mosquitoes.”
The three men sat around a glass-topped wicker table studying a map of Rio Bonita. They could hear the sound of the waves lapping at the shoreline.
“I know exactly where that beach is. In fact, I am fairly familiar with the entire eastern side of the island,” Baldie stated confidently. “Now, the western side where the head-hunting pygmy cannibals are alleged to be, that’s another story. I have never been ashore over there.”
“Why not?” Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone asked.
“Never cared to run the chance of getting zapped by a poisoned dart,” Baldie said. “That’s why.”
“Good reason.”
“How long will it take,” Major John Randal wanted to know, “to reach the beach?”
“About two hours. The sea is generally calm this time of the year unless a squall blows up. We should have a pleasant trip.”
“We’re supposed to be there any time after 2200 hours.” Major Randal added. “I’d like to arrive at least an hour early.”
“Good idea, Major. That way we can lay offshore and watch to see what develops. Who are we meeting?”
“My instructions are a little vague. I’m to meet an ‘agent or agents known to me,’ whatever that means.”
“Means you recognize them. You know anybody on Rio Bonita?”
“No.”
“In that case, this should prove interesting. If we are going to arrive early we need to leave right away.”
The men boarded the SOE chief-of-station’s fishing boat. Khaki shirt with sleeves rolled up, shorts, and canvas rope-soled deck shoes were the uniform of the evening—just what the respectable tourists they were pretending to be would be wearing. Everyone was doused with mosquito repellant.
Under their khaki bush shirts Major Randal and Captain Stone wore their silenced High Standard .22 semiautomatic pistols in lightweight canvas shoulder holsters. Laced to the holsters were their Fairbairn fighting knives. Baldie took a professional interest in the weapons, neither of which he had ever seen before.
A full moon was out and it was a beautiful, if somewhat muggy, African night. As advertised, the boat trip was pleasant. They arrived on station off the beach with plenty of time to spare. While the two officers napped, Baldie studied the shore through a pair of large Royal Navy–issue night glasses he kept on board. He watched a lone vehicle approach with its lights on. The car stopped, and several people exited and walked down toward the water.
“We have company,” Baldie announced softly and was surprised at how quickly the two Commandos came fully awake. It was a neat trick. They watched as a large bonfire was lit on the beach.
“Run downwind about a quarter of a mile, drop me off, then bring Terry back up here and put him ashore,” Major Randal ordered. “We’ll let him make the initial contact with the shore party.”
To minimize engine noise, Baldie pushed the fishing boat down the shoreline at quarter throttle, out of sight of anyone on the shore. Presently he pulled in close to the beach and Major Randal slipped over the side and waded ashore in the dark.
The fishing boat slowly putt-putted its way back to the vicinity of the bonfire.
“The Major is a careful guy,” Baldie observed.
“Yes, he is.”
Taking their time, they hove to off the beach opposite the bonfire. Captain Stone waited a while before easing over the side. It looked like three people were sitting in canvas folding chairs around the bonfire. From all outward appearances, they were having a small beach party.
A voice bellowed, “HALT, WHO GOES THERE?”
Captain Stone recognized the ancient challenge of fighting men dating back to the days of the Roman Legion, and there were only two possible responses to that question: “Friend” or “Foe.” He seriously doubted anyone in the history of armed warfare had ever actually responded “Foe.”
“FRIEND!” he sang out.
“ADVANCE, FRIEND, AND BE RECOGNIZED,” came the distinctly accented male voice.
“PASSWORD?” a female voice demanded militantly.
Uh-oh! He did not know any password. One had not been supplied for this mission.
Just at that moment Major Randal stepped out of the shadows directly behind the man in the canvas chair. He placed the bull barrel of his pistol against the back of the man’s neck and cocked the hammer. The metallic clicking sound of the mechanism seemed unnaturally loud.
“Frogspawn.”
Everything became very still. The only noise to be heard on the beach was the crackling of the bonfire. And, like the sound of the pistol being cocked, it sounded exceptionally loud in the tense moment.
“I sure do hope that’s the business end of a custom silencer screwed on the barrel of a High Standard .22-caliber Military Model D semiautomatic pistol,” Captain “Geronimo Joe” McKoy rattled off, “or we’re in a heap of trouble.”
“Well, Captain McKoy,” Major Randal said, “would you mind explaining what it is you’re doing here on this beach tonight?”
“Toasting marshmallows, John,” the ex-Indian fighter, Rough Rider, Arizona Ranger, et cetera, replied. “Would you care for one? It’s not nice to be sneaking up on your old friends like that; you might scare somebody.”
“Terrified me,” admitted Royal Marine Pamala Plum-Martin in a small voice.
“Me too,” seconded Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn. “I thought my heart was going to explode! Who is that out on the beach?”
“Come on in, Terry.”
“Hello,” Captain Stone said casually when, pistol in hand, he stepped into the circle of light cast by the fire. “Should I have brought wine?”
“Captain McKoy,” Major Randal said. “I asked you a question.”
“Collecting stamps, John. Did I ever tell you I was the Secretary-Treasurer of the Southwestern Cattlemen’s Association’s Chapter of the American Philatelic Society? Rio Bonita is a stamp collector’s paradise. She’s a Portuguese protectorate but prints her own stamps and is world famous for her insect stamps. They got themselves a little fire ant stamp with a double watermark that is about the purtiest—”
“Will you put a cork in it,” Major Randal snapped.
“That’s our cover,” the old Arizona Ranger persisted in a hurt tone. “I’m supposed to be a rich Texas oilman rounding up stamps for an exhibition at the annual Southwestern Cattlemen’s Association Symposium entitled ‘Stamps of the Non-Belligerents.’
“This here is my niece, Pamala Sue McKoy, and her best friend, Martha Jane Canary.”
“As in Calamity Jane. Well, you got that part right,” Major Randal said, staring hard at Captain Lady Seaborn. She blushed and looked down at the sand.
“Now hold on there, young major, don’t you go gettin’ yourself all riled up,” Captain McKoy ordered. “You ain’t got a monopoly on this here war; there’s plenty to go around. We don’t have much time so let’s get down to brass tacks.”
“Why don’t you do that?”
“The ladies and I are doin’ a forward reconnaissance for our mutual friend Larry Grand. For the last two days, Pamela Sue and Martha Jane have been paddlin’ around the harbor in a canoe, in their bathing suits, takin’ a lot of pictures. They’ve been doin’ a little fishin’ too. Ain’t caught much since both of ’em had lead sounding weights on the end of their lines instead of fishhooks. They charted the whole dang harbor.
“We brought you the rolls of undeveloped film and the depth charts in an airtight waterproof bag in case you accidentally drop it overboard on the way home, but try not to drop ’em. You boys sure won’t find any surprises when you come a-bustin’ into San Pedro Harbor after you get through studying the photos.
“Everything we’ve seen on the ground pretty much squares with the intelligence you’ve already been provided,” the cowboy showman concluded. “The only thing I might want to add to it is that the morale of the interned Italian sailors is probably even lower than reported. Those boys barely have a pulse. Watch out for the Ems, though, John. Her Hitlerite skipper rules his ship with an iron fist. You may run into some trouble with his Nazi sailor boys.”
“We’ll do that.”
“When are your troops expected to arrive in the Gold Coast?” Captain McKoy asked.
“Six days.”
“Good. Can you be ready to attack next Saturday at midnight?”
“Why then?” Captain Stone inquired.
“The moon will be down before midnight, giving you the advantage of the cover of darkness. I don’t know if it’s in your report or not, but to save energy, meaning money, Rio Bonita’s authorities turn the electricity off every night, rain or shine, at midnight. The whole island gets blacked out.
“I want you to begin your operation the instant the lights go out Saturday night.”
“What’s special about Saturday night?”
“We’re goin’ to be throwin’ a couple of parties that night: one is for the bigwigs—the mayor, the civil defense chief, ships’ officers of all three interned ships, the police chief; everybody who counts will be there. And to be on the safe side, I’m organizin’ a second party, a beer bust on the waterfront in San Pedro for the Axis crews of the interned ships.
“Right after the lights go out at midnight, the grand finale of both parties will consist of touching off the biggest fireworks bonanza in the history of Rio Bonita. We’ve bought up all the fireworks on the island and are shippin’ in a whole bunch more from the Gold Coast.
“The reason we’re goin’ to all the trouble is you’re goin’ to have to cut the anchor chains on the three interned ships with demolitions. There ain’t no way to haul ’em up because they’re encased in concrete. The fireworks just may give you enough cover not to alarm the Port Defense Force too much when you go to detonatin’ your charges to blow them suckers.”
“Terry?” Major Randal turned toward his second in command.
“Raiding Forces will be coming through the entrance to San Pedro Harbor the instant the lights in the town go out Saturday night, Captain. You just make the harbor look like Guy Fawkes Day, New Year’s Eve, and the King’s Birthday all rolled into one, old stick,” Major Stone said.
“Bank on it, buckaroos,” Captain McKoy declared. “One more little thing. I need you to have whoever brought you over tonight be back here Saturday night, a-standin’ offshore from 2400 hours on to pick us up. I intend to pie-yie out of here right after the party. There ain’t no sense in waitin’ around to see if the locals can add two plus two.”
“A boat will be here at midnight, Captain McKoy,” Major Randal promised. “Make sure you’re on it.”
“We will be, that’s for dang sure,” the ex-Arizona Ranger laughed. “And we might be bringin’ you a present.”
“Any chance I could sneak back into town with you tonight and observe the harbor for a day or two?” Captain Stone inquired unexpectedly.
“Martha Jane, what do you think?” Captain McKoy deferred the question.
“We can arrange for the housekeeper to have a few days off,” Captain Lady Seaborn said. “Best to keep you out of sight, Terry.”
“In that case, Baldie and I will pick you up here at this time in three nights,” Major Randal said.
“John, can I have a word with you in private?” Captain McKoy asked, sounding mysterious.
The two stepped away from the circle of firelight out of earshot of the others.
“I have another little diversion plan laid on to help whittle down the odds a tad more in your favor, but I don’t want the ladies to know some of the more intimate details,” Captain McKoy explained in a loud stage whisper. “This here is on a need-to-know basis and the girls don’t have any legitimate need to know, if you get my drift.”
“I got it.”
“I’ve contracted out the whole entire red-light district for Saturday night. I’ve hired every hooker in San Pedro. Like I said, we’re throwing a beer bust for the sailors of the interned ships and everything is going to be on the house, and I mean the whole shee-bang.”
“What is it you don’t want Jane and Pamala to know?”
“Well, that I’ve hired every hooker in Rio Bonita for the big show. There’s a couple coming out of retirement just for the party and some more coming over on the ferry from Accra. I even have some fancy French girls coming over from the Ivory Coast.”
“Hooker warfare,” Major Randal said. “I’m surprised at you, Captain.”
“Remember, John,” the flamboyant showman explained in a semi-embarrassed tone, “you’re the one with the rule ‘It don’t hurt to cheat.’”
“I thought I stole that one from you!”
“Well, it’s a dang good rule.”
“How do you plan to write it up when you account for your funds?”
“We ain’t going to tell a livin’ soul, and let history work it out for itself. You and me ain’t even havin’ this conversation.”
“Captain McKoy, I’m not exactly clear on why it is you’re here. We need to have a heart-to- heart talk when this is all over. Watch yourself, cowboy. I’d hate to have to come back after the raid to break you out of jail.”
“Thanks, John. I believe you just might do it too.”
“Make sure we don’t have to find out.”
“You boys made the newspaper, you know that?”
“The London Times is available over here?”
“Yeah, it came in on the evening ferry from Accra. I’m goin’ to need to get you to autograph me a copy so I can mail it back to the Southwestern Cattlemen’s Association to let the boys at home see what you done with all those Thompson guns they sent you. They’ll get a kick out of it.
“I sure woulda loved to have seen some of them 300-miles-per-hour fairies ol’ Zorro was describin’—sounded downright colorful.”
“Looked a lot like tracers.”
“I figured as much.”
When it was time, Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn walked Major John Randal down to the edge of the water. “I was dreadfully disappointed not to be able to be there to welcome you home from Operation Tomcat. I wanted to, John. I am quite proud of you, you know.”
“I heard you cried when my plane took off,” Major Randal said. “Is that true, Jane?”
“What if I did?” the drop-dead gorgeous spy responded defensively. “Pamala cried, too, and she never gets emotional. Watching you and the rest of the lads flying off to invade France all by yourselves was simply dreadful. After the Whitleys took off, Tomcat suddenly seemed like an incredibly stupid idea.”
“Did it occur to you I might not feel so great about sailing off and leaving you behind on this island tonight?”
“Oh, John.” She flung herself into his arms. They locked tight as the waves lapped around their knees.
Time stood still. The two might have stayed there all night if Jim “Baldie” Taylor had not finally eased the fishing boat in to the beach.
Before he stepped into the boat Major Randal reached into his pocket and produced the profusely engraved pearl-handled Walther PPK 7.65 automatic he had taken from the German general captured on Raiding Forces’ very first raid. “Put this in your purse and keep it there,” he ordered. Two could play the game of giving a present that would make the other think about them every time they saw it. Major Randal was pretty sure Lady Jane looked at her purse a lot.
Later, headed back to the Gold Coast, neither man said anything until Baldie broke the silence by observing, “I love it when the intelligence they give you in the initial briefing before you go on a mission turns out to be accurate. Seldom ever is, in my experience, but it was right on tonight.”
“What are you talking about, Jim?”
“The part in your briefing where it said you would be met by ‘an agent or agents known to you.’ You sure seemed to know one of them, all right. I can see it’s going to be a lot of fun working with you and Zorro. Does either of you have any more women stashed around the Gold Coast I might need to be aware of?”
“Not that I know about.”